


The Fox and the Hound

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Animal Abuse, Blood and Violence, Dogs, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Foxes, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Minor Character Death, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18370058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: On a fair spring day, Arthur the fox adopts an abandoned puppy and names him Alfred. Between coyotes, hunters, and prey growing scarce—life is far from easy in the forest. But the biggest challenge comes when Alfred discovers the truth of where he came from and must decide if he can stay . . . and Arthur must decide if he can bear to let him go.





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to wecouldbethestars and Kitty(Katatafish) for enduring countless fox GIFs and convincing me to indulge in a forest AU. Much love <3

It was down a rural road, the sort that wound its way through a forest and hence was bordered by bulging brambles and an unruly army of alders, that the tale began. An aged pickup made its placid way along the track, tires kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake, the driver’s whistle shifting in pitch at each pothole the truck bounced into. In the bed, sitting among old coils of rope, a tackle box, and the burlap sack they had long since wrestled their way out of, two puppies watched the endless passing trees and brush. The smaller of the two lifted his head, watching a bird fly over the warm blue above; his eyes had only recently matured enough to allow for such observations, and he was keen to take in all the world had to offer. His brother had less intellectual pursuits in mind and took advantage of the distraction to grab hold of the nearest floppy ear. The pair scuffled, pawing and chewing at each other, and when they tired of that they pawed and chewed at the burlap instead.

They were the offspring of a bitch who had learned years ago that her children were to be taken from her without exception, and so they had yet to be gifted with names. The only distinction between them was their size; they wore the same tawny coats and brown ears from their mother and their tails were already slightly curled like their father’s. Both parents had passed down independence, which was why, as soon as the truck slowed down, they both lifted their forepaws up onto the edge of the truck bed to see—well, what they could see.

The pickup had stopped alongside another truck facing the opposite way. There were no animals in the bed of this other truck, just snare wire, jaw traps, and other hunting paraphernalia. Despite being clean to the human senses, a distinct foul scent wafted over to the puppies. They both whimpered softly, dropping back down into the bed. The larger nosed into the smaller’s fur, to console them both.

 _“Williams,”_ said the hunter, by way of greeting. _“Got your hounds, did you? How is the German keeping?”_

 _“Oh, the usual,”_ replied the farmer, in the slow manner of someone reluctant to speak but too polite to stay silent. _“Well, I got two pups, anyway. Should do alright, I think. He said they’d grow up perfect for chasing down coyotes and foxes. That’s all I wanted them for. Guarding the sheep and such.”_

 _“I suppose your daughter will have ’em in her bed,”_ said the hunter with a raspy chuckle from a throat that had been subject to more smoke than it ought.

 _“I don’t know about that,”_ replied the farmer, reluctant to discuss his young daughter’s bed with someone outside of the family.

There was the pause of each member of the conversation waiting to see if the other would try to continue it, the farmer secretly hoping a moment would occur when it felt natural to end the niceties.

 _“Well, if it comes to it that they don’t shape up, I can always thin the varmints out for you,”_ offered the hunter. _“Good money in coyote pelts.”_

 _“Yeah, I reckon there is.”_ Another tortured pause. _“Well, be seeing you, Jones.”_

_“Don’t be a stranger at the lodge, Williams.”_

And on they drove in their separate directions, raising a small whirlwind of dust between their retreating forms. The smaller of the puppies again put his paws up on the edge, but this time he was alone. Unheard over the bubbling roar of the aged pickup’s engine, the puppy let out one squeaky, forlorn howl.

Having grown too curious for his own good, climbed over the barrier and tumbled into the ditch, the larger puppy now trembled and whimpered, suddenly aware of how large the world was compared to his tiny being. It did not occur to him to chase after the truck; he was rather bruised and battered after a hard landing, and by the time he was done feeling sorry for himself he was well and truly alone. No other vehicles passed by on the dirt road. He had no company but the background chatter of birdsong and the trickle of water in the bottom of the ditch, which—he tasted it—was too silty to drink and left grit on his tongue. He let out a high, expectant whine, but it was no use. His dam could no longer be summoned. He was all by himself.

Except for the pair of amber eyes keeping vigil from a clump of ferns. They stared, unblinking, for several long moments. They remembered, they debated. This was a dog, a traitorous animal and an extension of Man. Not even a dog, just a pup, small and defenseless. Revenge could be so swift, so sweet.

Slowly, the fox slipped from the undergrowth and crept forward to stand at the top of the ditch. The puppy’s attention was elsewhere; he had not yet learned to always look over his shoulder, to always swivel his ears, to never trust the quiet. The fox made no sound. A surge forward, a snap of his jaws. A culling to soothe his wounded heart. He eased himself down into a crouch, preparing to spring.

The puppy gave a pitiful cry.

The fox froze. He had heard this before. This was the cry for a mother, for a parent, for the one entrusted to provide food, shelter, and love. It stirred old instinct within him, the sort he had until now thought he would never feel again, let alone act upon. Yet here he was, his pinned ears rising to a welcoming perk, his taut lips loosening to cover his bared fangs once more, and his throat providing an inquiring yip before he had any say in the manner.

The puppy whirled around, nearly toppling over in his clumsy haste. His eyes stretched wide at the sight of this strange new animal, but he did not turn tail and run, nor did he attempt a growl. He simply gazed up at the red-and-white apparition, at a loss.

The fox was in a similar state. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now, nor what he was even prepared to do. He supposed introductions were the proper thing. Even slower than when he was stalking, he stepped forward until the distance was closed between them and he stood with his forepaws in the ditch and his hind rather awkwardly on the upper level. It was for fear of breaking several complicated rules of forest interaction that he didn’t immediately drop down into the ditch; instead, he first stretched his neck out toward the puppy, waiting for reciprocation and respectful sniffing.

The puppy regarded him, head cocked, then gave a delighted wriggle and licked the fox’s nose.

The fox jerked back, up out of the ditch. The puppy was unperturbed, wagging and hopping and scrabbling at the earth wall, trying in vain to clamber out. He gave a yip not unlike that of the fox, one brown ear flipped up so it stood erect, showing the soft wisps of fluff and tender pink skin beneath. The fox had not seen such uncomplicated joy and trust in a pair of blue-brown eyes since . . .

Without warning, he slithered down into the ditch, took hold of the puppy by the nape of his neck, and swept into the forest. He held his head high, and his quarry instinctively curled himself into a yielding teardrop. He had the rank scent of Man, but beneath that—milk. He was a baby, a pup, a cub. There was no darkness in the heart of a cub. He couldn’t be killed. Suppose he could be taught?

“Ah, Arthur.”

The fox halted, head lifting even higher, gaze searching the trees. Among the thick inner boughs of a chestnut tree, a lounging bobcat licked a large paw and swiped it over one ear. He continued his lazy face-washing as the fox grew more and more agitated below until at last Arthur had no choice but to set down the puppy and speak.

“What do you want, Francis?”

The bobcat blinked languidly, looking vaguely as if he was surprised to find himself in the middle of a conversation. “Oh, nothing. Only to know what you intend to do with that.”

This made Arthur almost certain the exchange in the ditch had been watched, and the idea of that prickled along his hackles. “None of your business,” he replied, haughty, and once again picked up his prize. He took a circuitous route to his territory and from there to his den, even though he suspected the foolish bobcat knew precisely where he slept most nights. This burrow was far smaller than his last, which was still an effort he was proud of on some level: multiple entrances and exits, branching pathways, niches for food storage as well as sleeping nests he’d cushioned with moss and the ever abundant red-brown fur. The current iteration was streamlined to a basic tunnel with a widened base, the ceiling of which was stabilized by the roots of an oak tree. He set the puppy down beside one of the holes. “I haven’t had reason to expand,” he said, “but the design is tried and true.”

The puppy had no appreciation for craftsmanship and was instead enamored with Arthur’s tail. He chased it when Arthur spun round; no sooner had Arthur pried it free of the milk teeth that they were clamped down again, with a head-twisting tug this time.

“Absolutely not.” Arthur awarded him a scolding nip. His tail was released immediately, and the puppy gave him a doleful look. “Serves you right,” Arthur told him, flicking his tail until the rumpled fur had some semblance of dignity again. “Chew on your own tail, if you’re so inclined. You must learn your manners, if you’re to be a fox. One mustn’t rush and bite whatever he can fit in his mouth. Wit is the fox’s favorite weap—what do you think you’re doing now?”

The puppy paused in squatting nearby, curious at the sudden shift in tone.

“No, no, no.” Arthur snatched him up, trotting several yards downwind before setting him down. “Not near the den. You’ve learned bad habits from Man.”

Once the puppy was done and Arthur had scratched the earth a bit in a lackluster attempt to hide the foreign scent—it was forest law that other predators could not step over his borders, but there was still no way to keep a dog concealed forever—he carried the puppy back to the den and this time dropped him inside. They slid down into the burrow and Arthur wrapped his body around the tawny bundle. He instantly started squirming, gnawing on Arthur’s ear. The fox pinned him down with one black paw.

“Settle down,” he said firmly. “Foxes sleep during the afternoon.”

This was clearly not a familiar concept. Eventually Arthur grew tired of snapping and swiping and just submitted to the sensation of puppy paws climbing all over him and milk teeth pinching his ears and tail. He was more inclined to sleep out in the open on a warm spring day like this one, but he didn’t want to risk the puppy’s safety. Even though he never slept deeply, and even though the rules forbade trespassing—a fox never trusted anyone.

The good thing about young cubs—and puppies, he corrected in his mind—was they burned bright but brief and needed large amounts of slumber before they could blaze again. The puppy curled up on Arthur’s tail, stretched his mouth open wide in a yawn, and tucked his blunt snout under his paw. Arthur watched this, then gave a gentle lick to the top of his head before resting his chin on his paws and drifting off to sleep.

When he woke again—sleeping lightly meant it always felt like only a blink between waking and dozing—only moonlight was threading into the burrow. Miraculously, the puppy was dead asleep and even when Arthur left him there were no yips. Like the last dig, the angle of the tunnel was such that small cubs could not get out on their own, so Arthur could have some freedom.

It did occur to him, now, that if he was to go through with this he would lose his bachelor lifestyle. He wasn’t sure his territory was large enough to support an adult fox _and_ a growing dog. Who knew how large he would turn out to be? And why had he been abandoned by his master? Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Then again, Man were daft, so there was a good chance they just hadn’t noticed the puppy’s escape. They were not, as a species, infamous for observational skill. But Arthur wasn’t exactly overflowing with expertise in domesticity. The first time round hadn’t gone well. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.

A flurry of yowls danced into the night air, drawing the fox from his reverie. He froze, listening for each voice. One, two, three, four—all present. And yet these were the entreating calls to beckon an astray pack member. And, as he stood with pricked ears, they grew slightly louder. Approaching.

Arthur dashed to his eastern border. A few strides beyond his scent markers was a small clearing, and here the coyotes were gathered. They were large brutes, more than twice the fox’s size, and they pranced and worried at each other, flashing fangs and snarling just for the sake of it. Their leader, a savage who called himself Mikkel, grinned at Arthur.

“I hear tell there’s a new resident in our forest,” said Mikkel, coming at Arthur fast enough that he was forced to edge into the clearing, where he was encircled by the pack. Arthur pivoted with them, gaze flitting to each canid in turn; it lingered on Mikkel, though, because in a group of untrustworthy creatures he was the worst. “A bobcat told me.”

Francis’s biggest flaw, aside from not being a fox, was his vice for gossip. “I thought you would know better than to listen to a bobcat.”

“Don’t be silly.” The coyote’s jaws snapped; Arthur only just swept his tail clear of the teeth. “Everyone knows it’s foxes who tell lies.”

Now they were pressing in closer, a low growl rumbling among them. They were a rather unusual pack; two mated pairs but no spawn to speak of. Neither females had ever said a word to Arthur, and the other male—Berwald, Arthur thought he was called—was just as short-spoken. If not for Mikkel, in fact, Arthur suspected these coyotes would not be such a thorn in his pelt. As it was, they were troublesome neighbors who might have constituted a move if not for the otherwise perfection of the real estate Arthur had secured. And, like Francis, they had their benefits. More than one meal had been inadvertently supplied by the larger predators over the years.

If foxes were bad at trusting, coyotes were horrid at forgiving grudges.

“A cub,” said Arthur, spine arching a little when golden eyes shifted sharply to his own. “I’ve a cub.”

“A pup, not a cub.” Mikkel flipped up his lip, snout wrinkling. “Hounds belong with hunters, not with foxes.”

“This one’s never been with hunters—”

Mikkel lunged for him, teeth gnashing while Arthur twisted to evade. His nostrils flared. “You reek of Man. Don’t try to deceive me, fox.” In the moonlight, his eyes gleamed an empty yellow. “I can smell the truth better than you can.”

Arthur’s hackles lifted and he quickly tried to flatten them, for it was a fact of life to _be_ afraid but to _look_ that way was another matter entirely and was not becoming of the clever fox. “Now, now,” he said, giving a grin that was both appeasement and assertion. _You have your teeth, I have mine._ “Let’s keep it sporting.”

The coyotes went up in laughter, Mikkel leading as always. It was similar to the sadistic glee with which they relished goading and slashing a deer, getting drunk on fear-scent and hot blood. The various displays of vicious dominance were not worrying in themselves—if Arthur got hurt, it was his own fault for not staying alert among these fiends—but the fact that the coyotes were now rallying around him, sniffing and lathering in their excitement? This was cause for concern.

“Rich, from you,” said Mikkel, still with his wicked grin. “Is your pet a new scheme? Perhaps he’ll use it as a diversion,” he said to his brethren, prompting sneers all around. “He’ll feed it to us while he tries to steal our meat.”

For just a second, Arthur did wonder if that would work. No, a puppy would never run fast enough for that sort of tactic. He shook the thought from his head. “Certainly not,” he replied, keeping his tail curled close to his side. It was entirely possible that these other coyotes were not as power-hungry as Mikkel, but they were pack animals and so it wasn’t difficult to infect them with a mentality. Arthur scorned it, as he did most unfoxly things. “Neither I nor the cub have done anything wrong. There’s no law against rescuing an animal from Man.”

“Rescuing,” scoffed Mikkel.

“And indeed,” Arthur went on, “what happens within my territory is entirely my business. That’s what the law says, is it not?”

This stilled the coyotes. Even Mikkel paused, ears lowered in thought. Then he gave a sharp bark, sudden enough that Arthur started a bit. His pack swarmed the clearing and disappeared into the brush, leaving Mikkel to stare down at Arthur. The fox stared right back, raising his tail as high as he dared.

“This is my forest, not yours,” said Mikkel. “If that dog endangers us, it must die.” He showed his teeth a final time as if to prove himself capable of murder. “ _That_ is what the law says.”

Arthur was tempted, but he didn’t pull back his lips. He didn’t show any aggression at all, only said, “If it comes to that, I’ll do it myself.”

Mikkel pulled his head back, surprised. Doubt twitched his ears, but he didn’t call Arthur’s bluff. The night was aging, after all, and there was hunting to be done. “As you say, fox.” He gave one last snap as he swung round, teeth glancing off Arthur’s ear. “As you say.” Then he was gone, bounding back to his territory and vanishing with a flick of his black-tipped tail.

After that, Arthur spent yet another night tracking prey to the haunting song of the coyotes. Though he wouldn’t admit it, there were times when it almost felt empowering, like he could pretend he was part of the unit of hunters, connected on some level. Tonight, however, he was more inclined to tremble beneath the burden of the music. Perhaps this was truly a mistake. Perhaps he should just take the puppy back to where he’d found it.

_Rooo-rooooo-roooo-rooo!_

The fox stilled, one paw raised. This cry was much closer than the others. In his agitation, it took him a second to identify it. Not a coyote, but the puppy. His cub, howling where he’d left him in the den. A fox cub would know to stay silent in the absence of its parents. _And so will he,_ Arthur thought, _once he’s taught._ What fox wasn’t afraid to take risks? The coyote and the bobcat, the owl and the crow, the rabbit and the mouse—they could all live as they had for decades, following the tracks left by their ancestors. But a fox followed no path. A fox relied on craftiness and ingenuity, and followed his heart over the rules. He would make a fox of the puppy, if only to show the obnoxious coyote he was wrong.

Arthur couldn’t bear to listen to the cub crying, nor did he want the coyotes—or anyone else—to hear the new arrival. The less the forest knew of the adoption, the better. So instead of following the rodent scent that was fresh enough to make his mouth water, he turned back and delved into one of his precious caches for a vole he’d caught last week. His trot became a sprint when the cries grew louder. The puppy sounded almost in pain. Could something have snuck into his territory without him knowing? A badger, perhaps? They were picky, unpredictable creatures; one day they could live peacefully in a fox’s burrow, the next they slaughtered a litter of cubs without even the courtesy of eating them. Arthur dove into the den without even scenting the air first. No one would harm his son!

The cries fell to whimpers. Once Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the shadow of the tunnel, he saw only the puppy, nuzzling at him and whining. Arthur knew what those little sounds meant. _Me! Me!_ And, of course, _Hungry!_ So Arthur dropped the vole and, when the puppy only sniffed blankly at it, tore it open. The thick scent of old blood filled the air. The puppy still only sniffed at it—perhaps he’d been left behind because he was dim—so Arthur chewed a mouthful and spat it back out for him.

“Eat it,” he said helpfully. “It’s food. What on earth did your mother feed you?”

The puppy at last caught on to the concept, gobbling up the meat mush and smacking his lips loudly. Arthur did his best to ignore that as he ate the remains, crunching tiny bones between his teeth. As he pawed the bits of bloodied fur away from the nest, he noticed a new accumulation of loose earth. Further investigation yielded a flurry of little claw marks along the steep wall of the tunnel. Arthur sniffed at the puppy’s paws and sneezed from the dust. “You’ll have good paws for digging, at any rate. Perhaps I’ll be able to make use of you.”

All of this excitement had tuckered the young beast out again. Arthur curled up with him. It was lovely, to have a warm body against his own again, and was there anything sweeter than a cub’s breath? _A puppy,_ he corrected himself again, then on second thought discarded the idea. He would be raised by a fox, as a fox, and so for now he was a cub.

“I must call you something,” murmured Arthur. “Did your mother give you a name?”

The cub looked up at him with bleary, tired eyes. He said something, but it came out wrong, with the stumbling of youth and an accent foreign to the forest.

“What was that?” Arthur pricked his ears. “Did you say _help_?”

“Whelp.”

“Oh. Well, yes, that’s what you are,” said the fox. “But that’s different than your name.”

The cub only stared, at a loss. Then he began to whimper, and it only now occurred to Arthur that perhaps asking an orphan to recall his lost parent was needlessly cruel. “Never mind that,” he said briskly, nosing the cub until he was hushed. “You’re here, now. My name is Arthur, and I’ll call you . . .” He trailed off into another spring, purple crocuses, warm amber eyes, so many names. “Alfred,” he said after a beat, then again with assurance: “Alfred.”

His cub was already well on the way to sleep; if he heard his new name, it was through a dream. Arthur didn’t wake him to hear him repeat it back, as was proper for the reception of a title. He only licked the dust from Alfred’s paws and closed his eyes, as well, listening to the soft breaths of the innocent and the distant screams of pain and celebration as the coyotes made their kill.


	2. Summer

Warm bled into hot as sunlight pours outward when an overcast morning gives way to a sunny afternoon, and the forest rapidly became a breathless chamber where animals had no choice but to seek shade or burrows and sleep away the torture of noon. Because of this, it wasn’t until the sunset had colored the sky in pinks and oranges that the thickets began to stir with movement. Daytime birds sang songs of farewell to the light while rodents poked shy heads from their holes, gathering courage to venture out in search of seeds and berries. Everything was bursting with life; the growth of spring left the wild cherry and apple trees heavy with fruit and flower that was continually worried over by birds and bees alike. Such activity was drawing to a close with the ending of the day. Now, as the flora closed its petals and sank low without a sun to encourage it, the fauna unfurled and lifted hungry faces to the moon.

A clump of bracken quivered then splayed as a young dog stepped out into a shaft of moonlight. He was in the always awkward intermediary phase between child and adult, and as such he had paws and ears too large for his body and a lankiness that didn’t quite synchronize with his broad head and barrel chest. He was effectively top-heavy and tended to teeter one way or another when stopping and starting; inertia did not lend him grace. Even now, creeping along through the undergrowth with his nose to the ground, he staggered to the left and tripped over a tree root a moment later. To his credit, he wasn’t at all bothered; his ears were perked and twitching and his tail was curled high over his back, waving with every step.

Suddenly he pulled up, raising his snout to sniff the air. He wasn’t particularly sure why, after he’d done it. He couldn’t smell anything. He couldn’t hear anything of note, either. Crickets and, more distantly, frogs were replacing the orchestra of birds. Yet some instinct had told him to stop. He scanned the tangle of shrubbery and grasses. His eyes were not as attuned to shadow as those of the other crepuscular creatures, so if there was something out there—

Something was on him! He yelped, dropping to his flank and swiping blindly, but the weight left as soon as it had come. He sat up, bristling, replacing his fear with aggression. His growl was still more squeak than rumble.

“Terrible.”

He turned. Arthur sat perched on a fallen log several strides behind him, bushy tail curled over his paws. His eyes reflected green in the moonlight. “Tell me what you did wrong.”

Alfred extended a rear leg to scratch behind his ear. “I didn’t smell you.”

“Because . . . ?”

Alfred cocked his head, racking his brain. “Dunno.”

“Because I was downwind of you. Not that you’d have noticed me either way. You had your nose rooting about so far into the earth, I’m surprised it’s not stuck full of soil.”

He licked his nose. It tasted of earth and fox. “I was tracking.”

Arthur slipped down from the log with barely a scratch of claws against wood. “A fox uses his ears first, then his nose.” He nipped affectionately at Alfred’s ear. “Yours are certainly taking their time to stand up.”

Alfred went to return the nip but Arthur had already predicted it and dodged, sliding right between Alfred’s front and rear legs and flicking him under the chin with his tail as he went. They were more or less the same size now, not counting the tails, though Arthur rarely carried himself at his full height so Alfred seemed bigger. Alfred did try to slink, but it felt strange. His spine wanted to be high and straight; his legs grew restless if asked to stay in one position for any amount of time. Though hunting was good fun at the climax, he dreaded the waiting. Arthur could sit outside a mouse hole for a whole lifetime without so much as blinking, but Alfred couldn’t bear it. His style—stalking and giving chase, glorious chase—was best suited to rabbits, but those were few and far between in Arthur’s small territory. His father had mentioned more than once extending his eastern border but hadn’t made any effort toward it yet. All Alfred’s inquiry ended in the same response: _Perhaps when you’re older._

“Am I older yet?” he asked presently, padding along after Arthur.

“No, not yet.”

“When will I be older?”

“You’ll know when you’re older.” And with that Arthur vanished into the thick saplings and assorted litter of the forest floor, leaving Alfred to try and follow his path. He wasn’t the best at imitating the quick-stepping, often back-tracking trails his mentor took, but he was learning.

Indeed, every waking moment was dedicated to learning something. Arthur showed him every inch of their territory, which turned out to be much vaster than Alfred originally thought. It extended quite far into the forest and the perimeter took the better part of an hour to circuit. They took it in turns to renew scent markers—Alfred permitted only to visit the southern and western borders—though Alfred didn’t entirely see the point in it. Arthur claimed an unmarked border was asking for a stranger to come along and intrude or, worse, take the land for himself. When Alfred asked what sort of stranger might do that, Arthur didn’t reply.

Perhaps he meant Francis the bobcat, who could often be found in a tree on their southern border. Despite Arthur’s hostility, the felid always had a kind word for Alfred and even gave him part of his kill once, the bottom half of what had once been a starling.

“What is it?” asked Alfred, quite muffled as he wolfed it down (following Arthur’s example, he now swallowed food whole and only occasionally retched it back up because of this).

“A bird,” replied Francis, crossing his fluffy forepaws neatly. “You don’t get much variety, being stuck on the ground. Pity you don’t have claws.”

“I have claws,” protested Alfred, and reared up to demonstrate. He quickly lost his balance and stood with his forepaws against the tree trunk, peering up at Francis eagerly. He would have told him, also, that they did have variety in their diet—Arthur could always scrounge something edible from somewhere, be it insects or berries or slimy grubs dug from damp soil—but he was too distracted by the novelty of climbing. “Can I come up with you?”

“Ah, not claws like these,” said Francis, not unkindly. He flexed one paw and Alfred wagged his tail in admiration as the curved blades extended and retracted from their sheaths. “Yours are blunt, I’m afraid.”

“For digging!” he cried, recalling one of Arthur’s earliest lessons. “Foxes are the best diggers!” He dropped to the ground and began tearing up the grass and dirt at the base of the tree. Most of it was sun-baked dust, but he carried on anyway, delighted by the rising brown clouds and the feel of the hole growing deeper. “And look what I know how to do!” Once he’d reached the deeper, damp earth beneath the topsoil, he flopped to his back and rolled around in it until his coat was satisfyingly grungy. Now he lay panting, relishing the cooling effect of the damp. “Much better.”

Francis’s whiskers twitched in amusement. “Yes, you do look better.” He stood, stretched luxuriously, and dropped down to a lower branch that bowed beneath his weight but did not break. Pale, tawny eyes stared at Alfred; in the sunlight, the slits were just black pinpricks. “Tell me, do you like being a fox?”

“Of course!” Alfred’s tail thumped against the ground. “Foxes are the best animals in the forest.” He struggled to recall Arthur’s speech about the merits of their species. “We’re the most cunning and clever and quick and—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all that before. And, for the record, it’s bobcats who are best,” said the bobcat, smoothing the fur of his cheek with the back of a paw. “But haven’t you ever wondered why Arthur is such a different fox than you?”

Alfred’s head tipped to one side. “What d’you mean?”

“Well—”

Just then a sharp bark sounded and both of them jumped up, Alfred to his feet and Francis to the higher branch again. Arthur trotted up to them, tail lashing. “Leave him alone, Francis,” he snapped, showing his teeth. “He doesn’t need your nonsense in his head.”

The bobcat began washing his face, unbothered. “I didn’t say a word.” He flashed Alfred a rather comradely look, the sort intended to exclude anyone else present. “Come now, Arthur, you know you have better things to worry about than me.”

“Hmph.” The fox turned away without another word, beckoning Alfred with a flick of the tail. While he was complaining to Alfred about not talking to strangers (which was apparently everyone but Arthur himself) and not accepting handouts (which was of course different than nicking someone else’s food) and _would you shake your coat out you’re positively filthy_ , Alfred’s thoughts were back beneath the tree. When they’d returned to the burrow and Arthur had cheered up—he’d stumbled across a nest of mice and as a result they were having a feast—Alfred decided he was willing to risk the good spirits.

“Arthur,” said Alfred slowly, “am I a good fox?”

He started as if Alfred had bitten him. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?” His lips pulled from his teeth. “What has that bobcat been telling you?”

Alfred sneezed a bit of fluff from his nose. “I dunno. How come your tail isn’t curly like mine?”

The fox turned to regard his bushy, white-tipped tail, then lifted his head to regard Alfred’s, thin and perpetually wagging. His response came softer now. “I was just unlucky, I suppose.”

At this, Alfred gave a reassuring whimper and licked the top of Arthur’s head. Arthur grumbled but nipped fondly at Alfred’s jowls and the pair of them tussled and rolled over a bed of moss. It was a rare treat for Arthur to allow this sort of wrestling, and Alfred had to keep reminding himself not to get too carried away more and more each time they tried it. It happened without either of them realizing until one day Arthur submitted to play and they found the entirety of the fox’s neck fit between Alfred’s jaws. They discovered this a tad too late because Alfred was already biting down and so there came a high screech from the smaller creature and Alfred could only crawl over on his belly, whining, until Arthur allowed him to lick the broken skin. He wasn’t truly hurt, of course, but it occurred to them both logically and instinctively that Alfred was now the stronger of the two. It was a shift that unnerved Alfred more than Arthur. Could he protect his mentor—his father—if he had to?

After that, Arthur treated him with new respect. They finally explored the forbidden land beyond the northern border and here Alfred was surprised to find that the upward slope broke off abruptly in a crag. Fields sprawled along below, dotted with grey and white splotches which were actually moving, strangely enough. Stranger still were the stationary features: two great structures unlike anything Alfred had ever (that is, unlike anything he could remember) seen before, and a thin barrier around different sections of field.

“What is it?” asked Alfred, unable to take his eyes off the foreign, fascinating expanse.

“This is where Man live,” said Arthur, gauging his reaction carefully. “Those fluffy things are sheep. That is a barn, and the other is a house. And that thing round the place is a fence. Do you see the little house there, and the brown birds? Those are chickens. And over there . . .”

Alfred couldn’t keep up with all these new words. “How come you know all this stuff?”

The fox blinked, then flicked an ear. “I’ve lived near Man for years.” His eyes gleamed, canny. “The more you know about your enemy, the more likely you are to stay alive.”

Now Alfred’s ears drooped. “Man is our enemy?” He had been hoping they could perhaps go down there, run through the beautiful open fields, give the sheep a chase, and have a great sniff of all the interesting smells wafting up on the breeze.

“Yes,” said Arthur emphatically, as if it was obvious. “They’re more cruel than any badger or coyote. They’re dangerous. Don’t go anywhere near them unless I’m with you. And even then, stay well away.”

“Why? What do they do?”

A distant but great rumbling interrupted. They both watched a bizarre animal running along the path leading to the house. It _must_ have been running, and yet Alfred couldn’t see its legs moving, nor could he see any legs at all for that matter. It halted presently and stopped growling, and—wonders would never cease—spread its wings so two bipedal animals could climb out.

“That is a truck,” Arthur told him before he could ask, “and those are Man. They hate foxes. If they saw us, they would kill us, and that is the truth.”

Alfred stifled a whimper, watching these unknowable killers. He couldn’t smell them from here, but he could hear them, making peculiar sounds to each other. Talking, he was certain, but about what? Not killing foxes, surely. About the sheep, possibly, or the chickens. Why did they live among these prey animals? And why did the sheep not run away, if they were in danger? They must have been too stupid. All prey animals were quite dull; the only thing that saved them was a healthy supply of fear at any hint of peril, and the fact that they were blessed with remarkably swift legs. Neither sheep nor chicken nor indeed Man themselves seemed capable of speed.

“How can they hurt us?” wondered Alfred. “You always say no one can catch a fox.”

“No one can catch a fox worth his fur,” corrected Arthur. “And Man doesn’t need to catch us. They have ways to kill us without even touching us.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No.” Arthur was grim now. “It’s not.”

“But how—”

“Mind your nose,” snapped the fox, biting at the air where Alfred’s muzzle had just previously been. “It doesn’t matter _how_ , they just do and that’s the way it is. There’s nothing we can do about it but avoid it. So worry about doing that.” His pause was barely a breath. “Actually, let me worry about that. Don’t think about Man at all. I don’t want them in your head.”

Alfred wanted to ask why he was so adamant about this, but an odd sound below drew his attention. Suddenly Arthur nipped at his ruff, drawing his gaze back to him. “Come,” he urged, nudging at Alfred. “We’ve hunting to do. Winter will be upon us soon.”

It wasn’t yet even autumn, but Alfred had learned there was no use trying to argue with Arthur. Away they went, slipping back into the trees.

Below, the farmer closed the driver-side door of the pickup and sighed. _“Well, that’s that.”_

On the opposite side of the truck, his wife gave a sympathetic and patient smile. _“It’s alright, dear. Mr.—er—the German fellow wasn’t too upset about it, so you shouldn’t be either. You can always get yourself a new pup next year. He said he’d sell you another, didn’t he?”_

The farmer was tempted to sigh again, but one was more than enough. _“Yes, he did.”_ It was kind of the breeder, really; the farmer wasn’t so sure he would’ve trusted someone so careless again, especially with the innocent young life of a puppy. They’d searched along the road several times, whistling and calling, but he’d refused his daughter’s suggestion of leading a search party into the forest. There were coyotes in there, and, for obvious reasons, he didn’t want to disturb them. Besides, if the puppy hadn’t turned up in three months, the chances of it still being alive were slim and none.

 _“Maybe you won’t even need another,”_ his wife pointed out brightly. _“Matt is a good dog.”_

The farmer nodded. Before he could speak, as if summoned by his name (why, indeed, like a dog), Matthew came clambering down the front steps and jumped up gleefully in celebration of his master’s return. The farmer made a sharp sound of chiding and Matthew obediently dropped to all-fours, tail whipping back and forth. Both farmer and wife gave him a pat on the head, but Matthew wasn’t long leaping back up onto the small deck. A young girl announced grandly, _“Look what I taught him!”_ She raised her hand, a bit of kibble pinched between finger and thumb. Matthew stood completely still, aside of course from his twitching nose. _“Sit.”_ His rear thumped to the floor. _“Up!”_ He lifted up onto his haunches, forepaws folded on his chest. _“Speak!”_ He gave a bark, then half of another to join her in her burst of _good boy! good smart boy!_ before he lapped the kibble from her hand.

The farmer smiled while the wife gently scolded their daughter for teaching a dog to give tongue when a dog was, in her view, best never heard and only occasionally seen. And, though he had the same sort of stoicism as any middle-aged countryman and generally considered optimism more troublesome than beneficial, he still turned to scan the distant treeline. Was it possible for the lost pup to still be alive, and to be close enough that he could hear the long-forgotten woof?

No, he told himself, probably not. He whistled to Matthew and led the heeling dog to the barn.

That evening, as Alfred nibbled burrs from Arthur’s fluff and Arthur returned the favor by tugging wood ticks from behind Alfred’s ears, the coyotes laughed and howled louder than usual. “How come they’re so excited?”

“The deer are back,” replied Arthur, squirming as Alfred worried out a particularly stubborn burdock. “They went away to have their fawns, but they’re back now. They’ll be fattening themselves up for winter.” He shifted onto his side, content. “As will we.”

Alfred curled his body around Arthur’s, resting his chin between Arthur’s ears. “Do foxes hunt deer?”

“No.” The bushy tail flicked until it was freed from beneath Alfred’s leg. “We’re too small.”

Alfred considered that for a long moment, then came to the conclusion most logical to him: “Coyotes must be huge.”

Arthur cracked one eye open, then closed it, nestling into his cub’s flank. “Yes, they are quite big. Lucky for us, their brains are not.”

Alfred chuckled at that and let himself doze, gazing up at the stars with half-lidded eyes. Part of him wanted to join Arthur in sleep, however light, but a large inner core of him wanted to stay awake forever and listen to this enticing song. He wondered what it was like, to hunt with a pack of giants. No matter what Arthur said, he privately thought that he would like to one day make the acquaintance of a coyote. _And Man,_ he dared to think, as his eyes began to unfocus. It almost looked like the stars were moving . . .

He lifted his head. They _were_ moving. Little dots of twinkling light were dancing down to him from the sky. He hopped to his feet. “The sky is falling!”

Arthur opened his eyes but didn’t move aside from a yawn. “They’re only fireflies.”

Fireflies! He tried to sniff them but they smelt of nothing; when he tried to catch them in his mouth, they blinked out and appeared again out of reach. It seemed to him that they were both there and not at the same time, just like Francis the bobcat’s excellent claws. The more Alfred learned of it, the more he delighted in the life of a forest-dwelling fox. Such wonders all around! Overcome with puppy-like joy, he capered about their little clearing, prancing and leaping with the fallen stars.

This wasn’t very foxly behavior, but watchful Arthur held his tongue. It wasn’t endangering them. No one else was around to see it. His cub was happy, and so he was, too.

For now.


	3. Autumn

The forest became a world of amber and gold. Trees bled scarlet leaves and grasses faded to brown, and the world was overcome with a deep stirring of _change._ All around them animals were preparing for the looming season of cold. Alfred stood beneath newly naked branches, staring up at squirrels who ignored him in favor of tidying and sorting their winter stores of nuts and dried berries. Everyone was gorging. The chipmunks and hedgehogs and even the frogs were preparing for what Arthur called a long sleep, which was incomprehensible to Alfred. How could anyone feel sleepy in this ever-changing world they lived in? He ran to and fro tirelessly, chasing the wind-blown leaves and leaping to catch them before they hit the ground. Arthur, watching him, was quietly unnerved by the heights he reached. He himself could clear, at the most, four feet; any higher wall than that required climbing to breach. But Alfred could quite easily do five and _six_ feet into the air, flying and twisting to snap up the leaves—athletics that, until now, Arthur had thought exclusive to coyotes and bobcats. But when Alfred turned to him, tail waving and ears perked in his excitement and his glee, Arthur could only praise his efforts as, “Impressive, very stylish. Good show.”

To Arthur’s dread, Alfred had not reached full size in the summer. In fact, he didn’t stop growing through autumn either. He stood taller than Francis now, tall enough that Arthur slunk under him now when traveling in the rain, belly-fur tickling his ears. When Arthur was organizing the dead rodents kept in the burrow, he nearly jumped out of his fur when he saw nothing but a tawny muzzle poking into the tunnel. Alfred could barely fit his head inside now; Arthur had no idea what they would do in a blizzard, when he had every intention of curling up where it was warm and dry belowground. Could they perhaps expand the tunnel to accommodate Alfred’s increasing size? But it was a known fact, both in Arthur’s experience and his instinctive understanding of digging, that a hole could only be so large before it began to collapse in on itself. Growing up in a different forest than this one, his dam had taken him and his littermates to a lake where they watched beavers constructing their dam. They gnawed with great yellow teeth at the base of tree trunks until, eventually, the hole they created was too much for the rest to make up for and down crashed the whole thing.

Though he hated to let himself think of it, he feared that was how their delicate balance was looking now. Alfred could live as a fox when he was only a puppy—babies of all sorts only needed food, shelter, and love after all—but now he was outgrowing Arthur’s territory. He worried every day that they would not have enough food to last through winter, and hunting rodents buried in snow was difficult to keep a fox fed, let alone a massive dog. What about his fur, would it grow in thick enough to protect him from the cold? Alfred was the hole and everything around him was going to crumble—and, in the worst case, crash down on everyone—if Arthur wasn’t careful.

At least Alfred could hunt for himself now. Some nights they parted ways at sunset and didn’t see each other again until dawn, with bloodied muzzles if they were lucky. Arthur had impressed upon Alfred that he was to remain within their borders unless he had supervision, but he hadn’t specified _who_ was to be watching over him and so Alfred went on strolls with Francis every few nights. The bobcat rarely joined him on the ground and wouldn’t explain why that was, even when Alfred pressed him.

“Just wait,” said the bobcat, “I’ll spend enough time down there when the snow comes.”

Alfred cocked his head, but the answer popped in before he had to ask. “Because you won’t have leaves to hide in?”

“Precisely.” Francis gazed down at him, openly fond. “How clever you’re getting.”

“A good fox is a clever fox,” recited Alfred, head high.

Something rather sad always came over Francis when he mentioned foxisms like that, but Alfred just assumed it was because he wished he’d been born a fox. Francis didn’t offer any of his kills now that plentiful summer was over, but that didn’t mean much to Arthur. Despite his view of their species as noble and original, the fox had no qualms with thievery. He stole from Francis, who would growl and swat but never inflict any actual harm, and from the coyotes, who sometimes chased him frighteningly far past the border before losing interest. Alfred was not permitted to come along on these occasions, which seemed to him like a missed opportunity for more than one reason.

“Don’t you think I should go with you next time?” he asked, chewing a tibia Arthur had brought back and which had been long-since stripped of meat. “I can carry more than you. And I’m faster.”

The fox jerked upright from where he’d been curled up to groom his tail. “You are _not_ faster than me.”

“Sure I am,” said Alfred good-naturedly. “I have longer legs.”

Arthur was quiet for a long moment before he replied, “Well, it’s not all about being faster. You need to be smarter, too. It’s no good to stay ahead of the teeth if you run headfirst into a tree.”

“I only did that once,” protested Alfred, pawing at his father’s flank until the fox rolled over and began nipping and kicking at the limb pinning him down. This was the closest they could come to wrestling now, and Alfred missed the days when he was small enough to roll about without fear of squashing his opponent. It was a shame how small his father was; Arthur had undoubtedly been the runt of the litter and perhaps had grown up with some sort of growth-stunting illness. He’d tried asking Francis about this but the bobcat had only laughed.

Arthur continuously distracted Alfred from the matter of stealing food with him and avoided giving a straight answer—as he was wont to do—until autumn was drawing its final breaths. On the coldest night yet, when Alfred curled himself tightly around Arthur in the hopes of absorbing the heat from the fluff, Arthur let him rest until the moon was high before he nosed him awake.

“Get up,” he said, words forming a cloud between their faces. “We’re going hunting.”

Alfred groaned. Hunting was all they ever did anymore and had completely lost its appeal. Most of the time these days they were unlucky; their territory had yielded all that it could and any remaining prey were too experienced or determined to keep safe their young to be caught. Even more annoying, they didn’t eat half of what they killed. Arthur had endless caches scattered throughout the territory, hidden in marked stumps and tumbles of rock and retired anthills. He assured Alfred he’d be happy about it come winter, but Alfred hated it now. Life was best when he was running, jumping, chasing, sniffing. New things, exciting things. Paws racing through mud and his heart pounding in his chest. But all this picky planning was not for him. He supposed he should do away with the mindset—a fox who survived was one who had a plan but could still improvise if necessary, after all—but he quietly maintained it in a sort of spite. Foxes were rather spiteful, if Arthur was anything to judge by.

Arthur chattered his teeth to chide him. “Up with you. We’ve some ground to cover.”

Alfred perked his ears. “Where are we hunting?”

Moonlight had the fox’s eyes gleaming pale green. “At the farm.”

Now he hopped to his paws with such eagerness Arthur had to evade being stepped on. They didn’t speak as they trotted along—the coyotes were rallying too loudly for a proper conversation to be held, anyway—but Alfred’s thoughts raced through his mind. At last, he wasn’t being treated like a cub anymore! And now he could give everything in Man’s territory a good exploratory sniff. And this would mean variety in not only hunting strategy but in taste, as well. Alfred couldn’t stifle a wriggle of anticipation and ducked sheepishly under Arthur’s disapproving backward glance.

The farmyard was distinctly different by night. The sheep were silvery apparitions in the moonlight and Alfred had to again and again force himself to focus on following Arthur rather than push his way through the gap in the fence and go over to introduce himself. For once the path Arthur carved was true: down two lengths of fence and straight to the little house that positively _reeked_ of chicken.

“Wow,” whispered Alfred, “are we—”

“Hush,” hissed Arthur. “Stand still and don’t make a sound.”

Alfred obeyed, more overwhelmed than anything. Arthur circled the henhouse, ears twitching and eyes taking in every detail of the boards and slats of wood. It was a spot on the bottom he honed in on, a slightly skewed piece in the puzzle. This he nosed at, then poked with his paw. With pressure, it gave slightly.

“Here,” said Arthur, far more intense than when hunting mice, “push this in and sort of up at the same time, that should do the trick.”

Alfred was uncertain as to what _the trick_ was but he padded over and poked his nose in the little gap as well. His whole world became chicken-scent. There had to be a whole forest of warm bodies inside! He nudged his snout inside, then thrust his whole head in so the weight of the board was taken by his muscular neck. With that it was simple to heave it upward, though it was hardly a comfortable position to be in, and Alfred only caught a glimpse of the interior—walls lined with sleeping hens in neat straw nests—before Arthur slipped inside and it was utter calamity. All the birds went up in hoarse cries and desperate flutters of alarm, and Alfred was so caught up in the clamor he barely noticed when Arthur slithered back out.

“Alfred!” barked the fox. “Get out!”

So he clumsily back-tracked from the hole and was shocked to see Arthur standing with one chicken dangling from his mouth and another at his paws. Alfred snatched it up and struggled to speak, muffled by the feathers: “That was great!”

A crash within the Man house, and suddenly its eyes opened, gleaming such bright yellow they bathed the yard in their glow. Alfred stood transfixed by the dark shapes moving inside and the blurry things in the background. What might it be like, he wondered, inside the den of Man?

“Away!” urged Arthur, tearing him from his thoughts. Arthur bolted for the crag and Alfred hared after him, a bit clumsy at first with the corpse swinging and flopping against his chest. He felt, however, fast as the wind: high on the taste of blood in his mouth and the furious shouts of Man left worsened in their wake. A victory for the cunning fox!

When they were back again at the burrow, Arthur showed him how to tear the feathers from the chicken. Alfred’s larger mouth proved more efficient and so they didn’t feast right away; instead, they lay panting and wagging, still wound with exhilaration. Alfred had never seen Arthur like this, so vigorous and bright.

“You were awesome,” he told him, a word his father used exclusively for things like lightning storms, the changing of seasons, and a waterfall he had seen as a cub which he had only been able to describe to Alfred as it was far away from there.

Arthur looked up, licking blood from the white—pink, now—fur of his muzzle. “. . . You were rather awesome, as well. I was worried you’d not behave yourself, but you did a fine job. Perhaps we’ll return again soon.”

“Tomorrow?” asked Alfred hopefully, even though _soon_ so rarely meant that.

“No.” Arthur’s ears flattened, scandalized. “They’ll be on the lookout for a week if not more. If a fox could steal all his meals, he’d not have ears for hearing—”

“And paws for digging, yes, I know.” Alfred nuzzled his cheek, to soften the words.

“Well, don’t forget,” grumbled his father. “And don’t get any ideas of going there without me. Understand?”

“Yes.” Alfred rolled onto his back, basking in the contentment of being pleasantly full for the first time in months. Upside-down, Arthur showed him his teeth in fond scorn of the goofy pose, but Alfred only let his tongue loll out one side of his mouth and thumped his tail against the carpet of pine needles.

“You’re quite the fool, Alfred.”

As if to confirm this, Alfred managed to get a feather stuck in his nose and spent several moments sneezing until it finally flew back out again.

Of course, the first time was not the last. It couldn’t be; they needed more food, their hunting grounds were not providing, and it was simply safer to trespass on Man’s land than Francis’s or Mikkel’s. In increasingly regular intervals, they raided the henhouse. It only took two kills for the farmer to find their method of entry and patch it up, but a fox couldn’t be kept out forever. Arthur tunneled under, climbed over, and when all else failed had Alfred bash his way through.

On the night of the first snow, just a sprinkling that marked the cusp of winter, Arthur did multiple laps of the house. Alfred could tell he was thinking, but he didn’t know what. The fox was, in fact, calculating. All the chickens they’d stolen were good fat birds, but still—was it enough? Greed was a natural thing, for foxes and other animals too. Survival was hardship at its core, so if they could have more to eat, why not take it? He turned to gaze at Alfred, appraising his broad shoulders and wide jaws. He’d never dreamed of attempting this, had no idea how best to approach it. Foxes didn’t shy away from risk, but was this one worth it?

Alfred lost patience with staying silent. “What is it?”

“Do you think—” Arthur stopped, then took a few steps toward the fence and started again: “Do you think you could take down a sheep?”

Immediately Alfred quivered with excitement. His father never asked for his input on these things, and certainly never let him take the lead in something as crucial as a hunt. He trotted over to the fence, looking through to the small flock of sheep. No more than a dozen, some larger than others. If they were aware of being watched, they didn’t give any sign of it. These Man-animals were even more dull than forest prey.

“I bet I could,” he said, and lowered his voice again when Arthur hissed at him. “I should go for a younger one, right? If I can bite its leg maybe it’ll fall down, then I can kill it.”

Arthur’s eyes glittered as he absorbed the plan, then stared into the field as if visualizing it. “Alright. I don’t know what the others will do, but I’ll keep them away if they go for you. And—I’ll keep watch. Run, if I tell you to. Don’t wait for me.”

Alfred was quieted, a bit, by how solemn Arthur was about all this. He licked one of the fox’s ears, and wagged his tail when Arthur gave the briefest of licks to the underside of Alfred’s muzzle. Then Arthur was sweeping away, flitting in and out of the shadows, only the floating white tip of his tail visible in the dark.

Into the field Alfred crept. He eyed them all, gauging which would be easiest to take down. They’d been shorn in the summer but the wool was growing in thick for winter, and Alfred couldn’t tell if they were fat or simply fluffy. He decided on a near yearling and stalked as close as he dared. Murmured baas among the sheep. A breath in, a breath out. Then, he charged!

They all went up in bleats of panic, running about in all directions. For a split second Alfred lost all thought, including which one he was supposed to be chasing, but then he found her again and fell into pursuit. There was only so much space for them to run about, but the way they dashed back and forth dizzied Alfred. They weren’t attacking him, at least—not until he got close enough to bite, that is. He held the sheep’s thin leg for approximately three seconds before the other kicked back and struck him soundly on the head. He dropped, shaking himself until he could see again, pain radiating round his skull. Where was his prey now? He was lost in a whirlwind of fear-scent and grey clouds.

“Hey!”

Alfred spun about. This was not Arthur’s voice. This was not a voice he had ever heard before. A strange creature sprinted over to him, cutting an easy path through the flock. It was cream-furred and brown-eared and the same size as Alfred, and the way it spoke was strange yet somehow half-remembered, like something from a dream.

“What on earth are you doing?” demanded the animal. “You can’t hurt sheep! Get out of the pasture!”

Alfred stared at him. “What are you?”

“I’m a dog, what do you think I am?” He bared his teeth bravely. “I’m warning you, get out! Or I’ll bite you!”

There was the familiar crashing from the house now, and Arthur came streaking around the fence. When he caught sight of the dog, he froze in horror, then cried, “Alfred! Run!”

“You’re with a _fox_?” The dog stared between them, utterly bewildered.

“I am a fox,” said Alfred, but then Arthur was leaping in to haul on his ruff and nip at his paws and they were running. Below, the dog gave tongue and Alfred heard Man shouting. At the top of the crag he dared to glance back, but Man was too worried about the sheep to follow them. The dog, though, was watching Alfred with his curly tail high in the air.

A tail just like Alfred’s.

 _“See the bite? Awful big,”_ said the farmer the following morning. _“What do you make of it?”_

 _“That’ll be coyotes,”_ said the hunter with a knowledgeable nod. _“I’ve seen it before. Didn’t find any tracks, did you?”_

_“No, but I expect they’d look like dog prints.”_

_“They would,”_ agreed the hunter. _“More or less. Well, I can set some traps for you, if you don’t want to worry about it anymore.”_

_“Well, I could spare a few chickens, but when it’s sheep . . .”_

_“I understand, Williams. A few snares, that’s all. It’ll take an hour and I’ll be out of your hair. Well, and then I’ll be back to check them, of course. Coyote fur brings in a lot.”_

It took him a moment, but the farmer nodded. _“Yeah, alright. Thanks.”_

_“Don’t thank me. My pleasure.”_

Meanwhile, in the forest, Alfred was still tormenting Arthur with the same question: “Why did the dog have the same tail as me? What am I?”

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” snapped Arthur, at last turning to look at him and flashing his fangs. “You’re mine, that’s what you are. And you can stop asking, because I’m not having this conversation. Do you not like living as a fox?”

“I _did_ ,” said Alfred, “before. Now I don’t know what to think. You won’t even give me a straight answer—”

“No.” The fox gave him a look colder than the frosty grass. “I won’t.” Without another word, he slid behind a trees and effortlessly vanished.

Alfred was left to wander alone, gnashing his teeth and growling to himself. Was he just not smart enough to realize why Arthur was being so secretive? Perhaps he was a bad fox, after all. Or perhaps foxes just couldn’t tell the truth about important things. If that was the case, Alfred didn’t know how he felt about being one. Wasn’t everything easier and nicer if everyone could understand each other? Not that anyone in the forest seemed to like making friends, aside from the coyotes who lived in a pack. Perhaps Alfred was secretly a coyote. Did coyotes have curly tails?

There was a part of him that knew, knew the moment he saw Matthew. But he had been raised by Arthur, and was truly his father’s son. Denial was the path of least resistance, ironically.

“Hello there, Alfred. How are you this morning?” Francis peered down at him from his favorite chestnut tree, which was how Alfred realized how far he’d gone from the border. “You look upset.”

“I am upset.” He flopped down and started stripping the bark from a stick. “I met a dog.”

Francis’s response, or lack thereof, was all Alfred needed. He tore angrily into the stick, refusing to meet his troublesome thoughts halfway. After a long pause, the bobcat climbed down from the tree and gave him a gentle poke with his furry foot. “Come with me. Let me show you something.”

Grumpily, Alfred followed him past the odiferous border of Francis’s territory. The ground here was riddled with gullies which Alfred supposed wasn’t a bother when one spent most of his time in trees. Most of them were full of mud and leaves, but the one Francis stopped next to was ostensibly a bottomless puddle. Alfred lapped at the water—he was quite dry after eating a stick—then went quite still. The ripples grew smaller and smaller until at last Alfred was just staring down at the reflection of the dog he’d seen at the farm.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Francis watched him, but not without sympathy. “Do you know, now?”

“Yes.” He still couldn’t look away from it, the truth in tawny fur. No pointy ears. No amber eyes. “Why would he lie to me?”

“Perhaps he wanted to protect you,” suggested Francis. “Perhaps he worried you would want to live with Man, if you knew what you were.”

Alfred snorted at the thought, then considered it. Living with Man? Living with another dog? Protecting sheep, rather than trying to kill them? He recalled the scent of the dog and the way he spoke, so strangely familiar. He’d smelled healthy and safe. Life with Man couldn’t be too terrible. Better than life in the forest, maybe? How could he ever know, until he tried it?

“What should I do?” he asked, at last lifting his gaze.

The bobcat regarded him with pale, wise eyes. “If I were you, I would go talk to the dog you met. Forest animals hate Man, but dogs don’t.”

Alfred realized the enormity of the transition before him. “I don’t know how to be a dog.”

Francis’s whiskers twitched. “Don’t put too much thought into it. You’ll be a natural, I’m sure of it.” He touched noses with Alfred fondly. “And don’t be too angry with Arthur. He loves you.”

Alfred didn’t say a word to Arthur all that day, and when the fox returned he didn’t say anything either. They curled up to sleep at noon—not together, for the first time since the hottest summer nights—and when they awoke in the evening Arthur seemed almost shy. He nosed at Alfred’s paws, trying to initiate a bout of playing, but Alfred just nudged him away and continued chewing on a bone that no longer tasted of anything. Arthur lay down nearby, chin on his black forepaws.

Eventually Alfred stretched and stood. “I think I’ll go hunting. By myself.”

He expected Arthur to say no, or to nag, or to repeat his orders of staying away from coyotes and Man. But the fox just sat up and replied, rather despondent, “Alright. Good luck.”

Alfred set off. He couldn’t enjoy how refreshing this new trust was, because he was too busy being cross about how Arthur hadn’t trusted him enough to even tell him what he was. A dog. He allowed himself to admit that it was a truth held right in front of his face, but how was he supposed to know foxes were all the same tiny size? How was he supposed to know Arthur was a dirty liar? And, for that matter, how was he supposed to know if Arthur had been deceitful about anything else?

“Alfred!”

He stumbled to a halt, despite himself. Arthur was at his shoulder, eyes wide. Alfred bared his teeth. “You followed me!”

“And a good thing I did.” Arthur stepped forward slowly, hackles bristling. With his nose, he gradually moved aside a low-hanging spruce branch, revealing a silver loop. Alfred, too, felt his hackles rise at the sight of this alien thing. Arthur edged around it, sniffing the earth, then the air, then tipping his head back, all of his steps extremely wary.

“What is it?” whispered Alfred, taken aback by the blatant fear in his father’s posture.

The fox’s lips were pulled back so far each of his teeth were visible in the frightened grin. “A snare. A hunter has been in the forest.”

To Alfred’s shock, Arthur began to tremble, and a great wave of protective instinct flooded through him. Alfred stepped close to him and nuzzled into his neck, whimpering comfortingly. It took Arthur several attempts to speak: “Back to the burrow. It isn’t safe tonight. I’ll need to find where they all are, if there are more . . .” He trailed off, overwhelmed by his own despair.

Alfred considered denying him, rebelling against his wishes, but if it wasn’t safe . . . He had no idea how to spot a snare, or any other evil set-up a hunter might have left. Likely he would step into one while looking around for them. Better safe than sorry, he reasoned, but didn’t like it.

Yet on their way back to the burrow—carving the same path they’d made before as precisely as they could—they were halted again by the distinct sound of something making its way through the trees. A large sort of creature, one who didn’t mind trundling straight through brush like Alfred used to before Arthur taught him to weave between. They both ducked down, hearts racing.

From the shadows came not a hunter or monster but the dog from the farm. He had his nose to the ground and happened to glance up and see Alfred and Arthur by chance. He sat down with satisfaction. “I found you!”

Alfred was caught between trepidation and joy. “But—you told me to go away.”

“Because you were hunting sheep. You can’t hunt sheep,” said the dog, as if it was the stupidest concept he’d ever come across. “But you’re a dog, you should be living on a farm. That’s where dogs live. So I came to tell you that.”

“Man may not be cruel to you,” said Arthur, stepping forward, “but they are to other animals. Alfred is better off here than with you, dog.”

“My name is Matthew, not dog.” He glanced at Alfred. “Unless I’m good, then I’m good dog, and I’ve been bad dog before but I try not to.” Then he returned his disapproving gaze to Arthur. “And _you’re_ a fox, so I shouldn’t be talking to you at all. I’m supposed to chase foxes away.”

“Well, you’re in _my_ territory now,” retorted Arthur, “so you’ll not be chasing me away from anything. Get out of here and don’t come back. You don’t belong here.”

Matthew seemed offended by this, but it must have occurred to him how far from his comfort zone he’d managed to get because his tail drooped and he turned to go. Before he could take a true step, however, Alfred crossed to stand beside him.

Fox and dog stood in astonishment.

“I want to go with him,” said Alfred, doing his best to be firm. “I want to try living with Man. They’ve never been evil to me.”

“Because you don’t know them!” Arthur was so agitated his fur made him look twice his normal size. “Give them half a chance, they’ll take everything from you.”

Alfred glanced at Matthew for verification. The other dog put it plainly: “Man are kind. My girl is the best. She’s much nicer than a fox. She gives treats and belly rubs. And they all stroke your ears. And there’s always food.”

Alfred turned back to Arthur with the air of _so there._

The fox’s face contorted with betrayed heartbreak and he stepped backward, cold. “Fine, then. Live as a dog. Be a hunter’s hound. See if I care.” He turned his back on them and went several strides before he snarled over his shoulder, “I found you in a ditch. Man left you behind. If you think they’ll love you, you’re deluded.” He curled his lip, disgusted. “I should have left you there.”

Then he was gone, running back to plunge into his burrow and curl around himself, wracked with grief. Above, the bobcat watched in mournful silence.

In the last light of evening, just before they reached the crag, the two dogs pulled up. Both the scent and the movement had disturbed them: four coyotes stood between them and the land of Man. Eight eyes glinted, eight ears pricked, but only one voice spoke.

“First one hound in the forest,” said Mikkel in a low raspy rumble. “Then a hunter comes. And now _two_ hounds. Soon there will be more Man than animal in my territory.” He showed two rows of yellowed weapons. “We could kill both of you where you stand, if we wanted to.”

On cue, the other three began to growl. Mikkel lifted his head, thick fur shifting over his muscled shoulders. “But I’ll let you go, on one condition. Stay. Out.”

Matthew ducked away, ears flattened to his head, and Alfred lowered his gaze in appeasement. “Fine.” He understood, now, why Arthur warned him to stay clear of coyotes. “We won’t be coming back.”

“Good.” With that, the coyotes parted to let Matthew through. When Alfred stepped forward to follow him, Mikkel edged closer, muttering, “The only thing worse than a fox is a dog.”

Without thinking, Alfred turned on him, growling savagely. It was instant: a snap of Mikkel’s deadly jaws and Alfred was running after Matthew, yelping and crying, blood trickling down the bite on the back of his neck.

_“Are you sure it was a coyote that did it? I mean, it could’ve been Matthew, for that matter.”_

_“No, it wasn’t Matthew. They wouldn’t be so friendly to each other if they had a fight like that. I don’t know if they remember that they’re brothers, but anyway, they haven’t left each other alone. Besides, that’s how coyotes bite.”_

_“Well, we’ll have one more dog and one less coyote after you call Jones.”_

_“Yes, suppose we will.”_

_“I don’t know why you get so bothered by Mr. Jones. You could do a lot worse for a hunter, that’s for sure.”_

_“I don’t care for the things he does, that’s why. He told me what he did to the foxes living on his land. Gassed them, the mother and the cubs, right in their den. I don’t like that. It’s not fair.”_

_“This is coyotes, not foxes.”_

_“Still. I wish we could just let each other alone. Likely if this farm wasn’t here—”_

_“They’re vermin, dear.”_

_“. . . I know. Never mind.”_


	4. Winter

The world turned white. Life with Man was, as Matthew had said, quite wonderful. Alfred learned to always listen to the farmer, avoid his mate unless she was outside, and indulge the girl’s odd requests so as to be rewarded by the inevitable bits of kibble and crunchy biscuits. Kibble was a miracle: two bowls a day, no hunting required. In fact, hunting was actively discouraged; when he left a mouse near the front step to be eaten later, the farmer’s mate made a terrible noise and he picked it up by the tail. Alfred never saw where it went, but Matthew told him dogs weren’t supposed to kill mice. The feral cats in the barn were allowed, and the little traps near the cellar door that Alfred got shouted at for sniffing, but dogs weren’t supposed to kill anything. _Dogs don’t kill things,_ Matthew told him, _dogs protect things._ Alfred didn’t mind that too much. They had other things to do, besides hunting.

Like patrolling the farm. There were no markers around the territory, so Alfred had trouble remembering where to stop at first, but he soon learned his limits. There wasn’t much excitement during the day—they followed the farmer around while he did repairs and played with their girl in the snow—but by night they chased away raccoons and, once, a big prickly fellow that Alfred informed Matthew was called a porcupine. It didn’t seem particularly bothered by them, lumbering through the trees and leaving pale branches stripped of bark in its wake. Matthew wondered aloud what would happen if he tried to bite it, and Alfred nearly said _It would bite you back tenfold_ before he remembered these were not his own words, but his father’s.

He tried to keep Arthur out of his thoughts. He was not unhappy, after all, living as a dog. In truth, he found it much more to his tastes than life in the forest. The coyotes’ hunting howls were distant echoes, and though he missed talking to Francis the bobcat he much preferred living in the vast open fields of the farm. Chasing and leaping with Matthew was the best of joys, as was—to his surprise—hearing the peals of laughter from the young girl. All of the goofy habits and poses that drew only fond exasperation from a fox were utter delights to the Man pup. Alfred and Matthew were supposed to sleep in the barn, but they were occasionally snuck into the house—after standing still while she wiped off their paws with a towel—and onto her bed, which was a squeeze now that the dogs had nearly reached full size. Alfred no longer felt clumsy or awkward. His body had come into balance along with his life, and he was pleased with both, but . . .

Something was missing. Or perhaps not _missing_ , but certainly unfinished. And on the day he heard the terrible sound, he knew what it was.

He’d been trotting alongside Matthew, but when the shot sounded they both froze, ears pricked. It was like a pop, sort of, but far louder, louder than even the truck and the tractor. It was in the forest, without a doubt. Birds lifted up from the trees, five black smudges across an overcast silver sky. Alfred had never heard such a noise. “What was that?”

“A shot,” replied Matthew, turning to watch the birds. “From the hunter’s gun. He was here not long ago, before the snow. He came with a couple other hunters, and one had a hound. She told me about guns and traps and things.”

 _A hound._ Alfred recalled Arthur’s claim that Man could kill animals without even touching them. And those snares left in Arthur’s territory . . . was the hunter after him? Because of the stolen chickens? Alfred’s heart began to pound. Arthur knew a lot about Man, and he said he was too cunning to be caught by coyotes or bobcats, but what if he didn’t even see a hunter? And the shot rang out . . .

Alfred took off at a run.

“Wait!” Matthew bounded after him. “Where are you going? We can’t go in there!”

Alfred halted halfway up the slope. “Stay here. I have to see if Arthur is okay.”

“The fox?” Matthew cocked his head, bewildered. “But—”

“I have to,” repeated Alfred.

Matthew stared at him, gave a soft whimper, and nuzzled his cheek. “Be careful.”

Alfred returned the affectionate touch, then spun round and sprinted over the crag and into the trees. He didn’t recognize the forest like this, blinding white with nothing but stark brown pillars breaking it up. The scents and sounds were muted, drowned out by all the snow. He couldn’t run so fast among the trees, and it occurred to him almost too late that there could still be snares set out. He slowed to a cautious walk, staring all around before he took each step. He didn’t know which way the hunter would be coming from, if he was coming this way at all. He kept his ears pricked and swiveling. He would go as far as the burrow, and if Arthur wasn’t there . . . well, he would decide what to do then, not now. _What about Francis?_ He really should check on the kind bobcat too—

“Alfred!” As if summoned by thought of his name, Francis was suddenly above him, peering around the thick trunk of an oak tree. “What are you doing here? A hunter is in the forest!”

Relief washed over him, along with dread. “Oh, good, you’re safe. Why are you all the way over here?” The bobcat’s territory was much farther south than this; he would’ve had to cut through Arthur’s to get where they now stood.

“I just told you, there’s a hunter!” Francis’s rough pink tongue was out, panting in his fright. “I didn’t see it, but I heard. He shot a coyote.”

Alfred’s tail, always curled high over his back, stood out straight now. “You’re certain?”

“Yes. I heard the cries before she was put out of her misery.”

Alfred bristled. “She?”

Francis grimaced, grim. “I might be wrong, but I don’t think so. It sounded like Mikkel’s mate, to me.”

Everything within Alfred quieted. If Mikkel’s mate was dead because of a hunter in the forest, and if a hunter was in the forest because of Arthur and Alfred, there was no question: Mikkel would be coming for Alfred. But if Alfred wasn’t here to fight him, if it was only Arthur . . . Alfred pictured it, coyotes digging at either exit of Arthur’s tunnel, barking and snapping until at last they reached their quarry and tore him apart in their frenzy. What was a little fox, however clever, against three coyotes?

He didn’t need to tell Francis what he was doing. The bobcat knew. They both ran for the burrow, Francis flying from tree to tree, Alfred weaving between the trunks.

They heard the coyotes before they saw them. Two were howling, rallying, but Mikkel’s voice was not among them. For just a moment Alfred hoped it was the leader who’d been shot, but when they came into the familiar clearing—the holes of the burrow almost invisible in the snow—Mikkel was the first to turn around and growl at them. He was jagged and wild-eyed in his grief; Alfred had never seen an animal look like that. He smelled—wrong. Unhinged. Dangerous.

Alfred didn’t smell blood. Not yet.

Mikkel’s voice was a harsh snarl. “You killed her.”

Alfred raised his head. There was no negotiating with this coyote. “The law says no trespass—”

 _“The law?”_ roared Mikkel, teeth bared and gnashing. “You don’t know our laws. You have never belonged here. _I told that fox._ And he still kept you. And now she’s dead.” The other two coyotes flanked him, edging closer to Alfred. “The laws are broken. It’s all ruined. I’ll kill you both, I don’t care.”

Of that much, Alfred was certain. But: “Maybe I’ll kill you,” he said, and was surprised at how steady and quiet his voice sounded. “If you don’t want that to happen, you should back down.”

Mikkel laughed, high and savage, but the other coyotes didn’t. They only stared at Alfred, ears lowering slightly. When Mikkel noticed this, he snapped at the two of them and turned his glare on Alfred. The time for talk was over. They didn’t circle each other, they didn’t vie for dominance. They lunged.

Alfred’s play-fighting with Matthew couldn’t compare to this. No second could be spared to enjoy the adrenaline; it was jaws, jaws, jaws. Teeth clashed, claws tore at fur, and all Alfred could do was turn his head again and again, this way and that, to protect his throat. Mikkel didn’t feign or trick, he was simply relentless. Alfred was larger than him now, and perhaps stronger too, but what was the good of that when he couldn’t get a single blow in?

Alfred tried pulling back, but as soon as he gave an inch Mikkel was shoving him to the ground. Alfred tumbled to his side, again jerking and grappling upward at Mikkel’s chest, dodging and blocking endless fangs. He glimpsed Francis swiping at one of the other coyotes and only just leaping clear of another set of jaws. Alfred felt a cold stab of fear. What had he brought upon himself, upon Francis? What if Arthur came back to find the both of them dead in front of his den? Would he even try to fight or run, at that point? Or would he think he had nothing left? _I’m sorry, Arthur,_ Alfred thought for the first time. _I’m sorry I left you alone. I—_

Suddenly Mikkel fell off him. Alfred saw only a flash of red fur and heard the accompanying howl of pain from Mikkel; then they were spinning, rolling, Mikkel slamming himself into the snow in attempt after attempt to rid himself of the fox clinging for dear life to his back. As soon as Arthur was down he was right back up again, streaking round the clearing so fast Alfred could hardly track him: past Mikkel, between Francis and his tormentors, around Alfred, and straight between Mikkel’s legs. This proved too ambitious and the coyote grabbed him, a flimsy hold on a hind leg that swiftly kicked its way free. His athletics were stunted now, his circle around Alfred leaving blood drops in the snow. Now he stood his ground, hackles raised and ears pinned against his head, tail lashing behind him. Alfred joined him and they both gave tongue, the fox gekkering and the dog barking. Now Mikkel could do what most animals would do: assess the risks and returns, accept that it was not worth it, and retreat. And sure enough, he turned away, head lowered, quivering with rage and loss.

Then he surged toward them and clamped his maw shut on the back of Arthur’s neck.

There was no thought now. Alfred tore into Mikkel. Neither of them could tell what was happening; it was just rolling and kicking and biting, pain and heat and claws and fur—and then Alfred was suddenly on his feet, alive with blood thumping inside him and out from the bite marks littering his body. He didn’t have time to look at Francis or Arthur. Mikkel was already up and after him. If they clashed again, Alfred didn’t know who would be the victor. So he turned tail and ran.

He was prepared to turn back if Mikkel didn’t follow, but the same canine hearts beat in their chests and so of course the coyote gave chase. Alfred was not used to being on this end of the delight of chase. His last time living as a fox, one way or another. He plunged through a snowdrift, lifting his legs as high as he could. Pain seared through his muscles, but he kept on running and weaving because Mikkel kept right behind him. He wondered if the coyote was toying with him. How fast could he run? And how long could he keep it up?

His path was impossible to decide, because where was he supposed to go? Through to Francis’s territory? To the coyote’s land? Back to the farm? He couldn’t, none of them were safe. And he had no time to consider it anyway, too busy running and dodging trees and stretching ahead when he heard the snapping jaws get too close. Arthur or Francis would have a plan, but Alfred didn’t know what he was supposed to do. His master always knew what he was doing, always had orders for Matthew and Alfred. Even Mikkel, crazed as he was, had a plan: all he had to do was wait until Alfred tired or slipped up. Then he would be lost, and Arthur would, too.

Alfred skidded around a tangle of alders. All of this looked vaguely familiar, being Arthur’s territory, but this was marked in his mind for some reason. It was all different with snow and without leaves, but the coniferous branches were still full of needles—

The spruce, the low-hanging branch. Arthur halting him, shaking with fear. The silver loop.

Alfred tucked his paws close to his body and leaped.

He heard it before he spun round to see it. The horrible cut-off of the growl and the choking that followed. Mikkel was jerked upright, hanging by the snare round his neck, and Alfred watched in horror as the coyote kicked and choked and, while Alfred looked on, fought for his life and lost.

Mikkel hung still, tongue loose and dripping, saliva and blood. Eyes open but unseeing.

Alfred was no longer running, but his heart hadn’t stopped roaring. He had seen prey die, had killed rabbits and mice and tiny creatures like those, but it had never occurred to him that an animal who thought and spoke could just— _die._ Yet there Mikkel hung. A corpse.

He didn’t know how much time he stood there, but the endless moment ended when the other two coyotes came racing over, fangs flashing. When they saw their leader, however, their aggression vanished and they skidded to a halt in the snow. The female ducked her head, tail tucked between her legs; the male’s hackles bristled and he nosed the top of his mate’s head. They looked to Alfred. Without Mikkel’s vengeful influence, they no longer lusted for dog blood. Alfred met their eyes, lifting his tail. _My territory. Go._

Without a sound, the coyotes retreated back to their home.

Alfred picked his way back to the burrow in a haze that cleared instantly when he saw Francis. The bobcat was hovering over Arthur, licking his ears and face. The fox had not moved from where he’d fallen, but the snow beneath him was soaked with blood. Francis raised his head. The white fur around his lips was red.

“He won’t stop bleeding,” Francis said, a voice shakier than Alfred had ever heard from the usually calm felid. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Alfred stared down at the fox, his friend, his father. Arthur had not left him when he needed help. Alfred could not leave him. “No,” he agreed, “but there might be something Man can do.”

As gently as he could, he picked Arthur up in his mouth. His nape had been torn open, so it was around his middle Alfred grasped him; he hung limp from Alfred’s jaws, reeking of blood and pain. It was a peculiar sight—Francis sniffed at Arthur, to make sure he was still alive in the dog’s great grip—but Alfred didn’t linger long enough for it to be critiqued. He just turned and trotted as fast as he dared to the crag. Francis followed above as far as he dared, but Alfred was alone for the final stretch of his journey. Aside from Arthur of course, who had begun to whimper, the same pleading sounds he used to make in his sleep when he dreamt of being chased.

Alfred didn’t have to scratch at the door. It opened as soon as he came near, Matthew and their girl stepping out. Matthew froze in shock and confusion, but their girl hurried forward as Alfred set Arthur down.

_“Alfie! A fox! Oh no, he’s hurt, look. You didn’t do it, did you? No, you wouldn’t do that. Oh, the poor thing, he needs bandages. Stay here, I’ll go get some!”_

Then she was gone. Alfred hoped she was fetching something to help, not something dangerous. Matthew clambered down the steps and sniffed at Arthur, who stirred and gave a frightened squeak at the sight. “It’s okay,” Alfred said, to calm both of them. Addressing Matthew’s misgivings, he said, “Dogs protect things.” Then he nuzzled between Arthur’s ears. “The coyotes are gone.”

They’d been replaced with a new terror, though. The girl had brought her father.

_“Madeline, don’t touch that fox! It could be rabid.”_

_“No it’s not, it’s hurt, Daddy. Alfie brought him. He needs help.”_

_“. . . Here, let me do it. Don’t get too close, he might bite you.”_

_“He wouldn’t mean it.”_

_“Maybe not, but a bite is a bite.”_

The farmer knelt in front of the fox and offered a hand as he would to a strange dog. Under Alfred’s encouraging gaze, Arthur did not bite, though his flank heaved with fearful panting. The farmer cleaned the bite with something that made Arthur yowl, but he’d lost too much blood to get up and run. He rose and fell, on his side this time. The farmer bandaged his wounds with large but deft hands, and when he was done he observed the fox in surprise.

_“Well, he’s not too wild, I guess.”_

_“No, he’s polite! We should take him in the house so he can have a good rest.”_

_“No, a fox can’t come in the house. We’ll put him in the barn and leave the side door open, so he can get out if he needs to. Provided we can even get him in there to begin with.”_

Ten minutes later, after Arthur had grudgingly allowed himself to be picked up and carried to the barn—grumbling all the while, which had the girl giggling and the farmer stifling a smile—Alfred curled up with him. Where Arthur had once wrapped his body round a tiny pup, Alfred now did the same to the fox. By way of apology, Arthur nuzzled him and licked his nose. Alfred sneezed and rested his head on top of Arthur’s, pinning him between Alfred’s chin and paws. They made soft, fond noises and it wasn’t long before the warmth and familiar scent—and his pain and exhaustion, as well—had lulled the fox to sleep.

The farmer, the girl, and the dog watched in bewilderment. The dog still didn’t understand how a fox and a hound could be friends, and the girl still couldn’t figure out why the fox wasn’t allowed to sleep on her bed, and the farmer still wouldn’t quite let himself consider what was in front of him. He’d lost a puppy on a forest road, it had somehow lived for months on its own in the forest, and now here was a dog cuddling with a fox the way a whelp would to its dam. For just a moment, he thought, _I wonder if_ —

No, certainly not. Just a coincidence. Life was full of those, after all. He patted his dog’s head, then his daughter’s. _“Okay. Let’s go back inside. It’s getting cold.”_

The girl waved goodbye to the fox, and Matthew gave them one last friendly sniff before he trotted back to the house. Alfred stayed with Arthur, eyes closed but ears perked, listening, protecting. But tonight, for the first time, the coyotes never sang a single note.

After that, there is not much more tale to tell. Once the fox had been healed he returned to the forest. The farmer feared he would return to stealing chickens, but—unbeknownst to Man, of course—the coyotes had moved on to a different territory, leaving Arthur and Francis to divide the spoils between them. Their new land provided for them in the winter and flourished in the spring, and it was in the springtime that they saw Alfred again. Bobcat in the trees and fox on the crag, they watched the two dogs bound tirelessly over the flowered fields below, prancing with butterflies at noon and dancing with fireflies at night. Sometimes Alfred looked toward the forest and barked, but there was never any response.

That is, until one fine spring morning, two years after it all, when Alfred woke to a peculiar noise. He was the master of his new territory; he knew every inch of the farm, and he knew every sight and scent and sound. This, however, he had never heard before. A peculiar high-pitched cry, almost like a young owl. He trotted to the edge of the field and, overcome by curiosity, climbed over the crag.

Here were five fox cubs, tussling and yipping, their ears far too large for their heads, their tails not yet white-tipped. When they caught sight of Alfred, two brave ones snarled squeakily while the others barked in alarm. Immediately, a vixen slid from the trees, teeth bared, but her attack was cut short by the arrival of Arthur. He soothed her with a brush of his tail and regarded Alfred warmly. The dog cocked his head to one side. The fox showed his teeth in a rather sheepish grin.

They all tipped up their heads at a panicked squeal. In the tree overhead, a spotted kitten hung by his baby claws. On the branch just below him, Francis purred in amusement and nudged the kitten’s rump until its hind claws found purchase. Another kitten squirmed out from beneath its father and peered down at the canines below, eyes wide with youthful curiosity.

The vixen was uneasy among this crowd; she began herding her babies away, back to the burrow. Arthur stepped after her, but glanced back at Alfred. The dog could see the scars on his neck, just visible through thick red fur. Amber eyes met brown.

All at once, Alfred dropped into a play bow.

The fox stared at him for a moment, then briefly abandoned propriety to leap at him and chase him thrice round the clearing before Alfred at last jumped down from the crag and ran back to the field, his tail a tawny blur as the forest faded to a warm memory in his wake.

  
  


_The End._


End file.
